


a strange day in may

by TaffySinclair



Category: Brick (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaffySinclair/pseuds/TaffySinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brain accidentally stumbles into the middle of a kidnapping scheme, he has no choice but to call in a favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a strange day in may

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bottomfeeder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bottomfeeder/gifts).



There's a knot on the back of his head that's throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and he can't tell if his eye's swollen shut or if it's just that dark.  
  
Instinctively, he touches the sore spot; it's slick, a little too wet.  
  
Then he remembers that his hands should be bound. They aren't. Feet, either.  
  
Best news he's had in a while.  
  
That and the fact that the car's stopped moving.  
  
*  
  
 _two days previous_  
  
Brendan's not exactly in the mood to talk about the bad old days when he gets the call, but he agrees to meet up anyway, because what the hell, and God knows he owes Brain a few favors.  
  
They haven't talked in about a year, not for any good reason other than going about their lives after graduation. Brendan didn't bother with the cap and gown, but he'd hung out around the edges. One last stab at being a normal teenager before closing the book on that for good. Brain had tipped his cap to Brendan across the field, and he'd waved back. That was it.  
  
Brain hadn't wasted a second in getting the hell out of Dodge, and Brendan wished him well. He always thought his own feet would hit the floor running as soon as he was set free, but he'd been in a solid funk for a good long while by the time graduation rolled around. So instead he stuck around town, moved out and got a soul-sucking temp gig to kill time while he plotted his next move.  
  
He doesn't blame Brain for not keeping in touch.  
  
Brain's talking even faster than usual on the phone, and he doesn't want to meet in public. Brendan has a feeling he's about to make good on one of those favors.  
  
He meets Brain at the Greyhound station without so much as a _hello_ and they walk back to Brendan's place in silence. It's just a dingy little efficiency in a rundown neighborhood, but it serves its purpose and the rent's not bad.  
  
"Need you to keep this for me." Brain slides a small package wrapped in plain brown paper across the card table that takes up the corner of Brendan's kitchenette.  
  
He still looks the same, except maybe the shadows under his eyes are a little darker than they used to be. His foot won't stop tapping under the table. He doesn't seem to be aware of it, so Brendan doesn't point it out.  
  
"What's this," he says, barely a question. The what doesn't matter without the why, but he can't lead with that.  
  
"Better you don't know," Brain says.  
  
"All right, cards on the table. Gambling? Girls?" He swallows. "Drugs?"  
  
Brain almost smiles. "I wish."  
  
To hell with it. Brendan rips the paper off the package in one long movement before the protest leaves Brain's lips.  
  
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he says.  
  
" _The Woman in White_?" Brendan thumbs through the book carefully. It's old, but mint.  
  
Brain sighs, laying his head down on the table. "Careful. First edition. Check page 13."  
  
At the top of page 13 are three numbers: 138, 28, 48. "A combination?"  
  
"Doesn't matter."  
  
"Of course it--"  
  
Brain lifts his head. "It was just a book left on a bus, didn't think anyone would care if I took it, but turns out it was a message. Wasn't meant for me."  
  
"So?"  
  
"The ones who left the message, they think I took something else now. Told them I didn't, tried to apologize, but I'm dead if I can't find what they're looking for."  
  
Brendan shrugs. "All right, calm down, I'll help. What is it?"  
  
Brain takes off his glasses, closes his eyes. "A girl."  
  
"A girl?"  
  
"The guy's daughter."  
  
"So call the bulls."  
  
Brain shakes his head, eyes still closed. He draws a finger across his throat like a knife. "I do that, they kill me slow. See, not only do they think I took this girl, but that code? Location of the ransom. Means nothing to me, so I'm fucked either way.” He exhales. “And all of this during finals."  
  
"Shit," Brendan says, leaning back in his chair. "College."  
  
"Just keep the book for me, OK?"  
  
Brendan tosses the book on the table. "You didn't come here to lock this up for safekeeping. I already said I'd help. Who's the girl?"  
  
Brain sighs. "Jilly Montoya. Sorority girl or some shit. Her dad and brother are the ones breathing down my neck."  
  
"Do you know her?"  
  
"Not even a little," Brain says. "Disappeared a couple weeks ago, there was some talk about a boyfriend, older guy."  
  
"Naturally. Why aren't they banging down his door?"  
  
“Nobody knows who he is.”  
  
"They don't think that's a better lead?"  
  
"I'm the one who picked up the book,” Brain says. "I was just looking for something to read, people leave things on the bus all the time."  
  
"First edition seems pretty specific, assuming that's something the guy requested."  
  
"Couple of used bookstores near campus," Brain says, sounding somewhat hopeful. His leg stops bouncing.  
  
"All right," Brendan says. "Seems like an easy fix. We'll work it out. You were right to call me."  
  
Brain puts his glasses back on. "Guess I'm calling in a favor."  
  
*  
  
Brendan drives the whole nine hours up to Cal State Chico, stopping twice for gas. Brain spends the first hour or so tapping his fingers on the armrest, but finally he falls asleep. Might be the first time in a while.  
  
Brain's dorm room is even smaller than Brendan's efficiency, and there are four beds crammed in there. Two of the roommates are around when they stop by, and Brendan sort of hates them on sight. Maybe it's unfair but it's true: they've never _suffered_. Real Joe College types.  
  
They regard him with equal amounts suspicion and amusement, which pisses him off a little, too.  
  
"Jilly Montoya," he says. "You know her?"  
  
They shrug in unison, until one relents: "She's not exactly social, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Assume I don't."  
  
"I didn't know her personally," he says. "But I hear her family's real controlling. Had a sister who went wild so she's on lockdown."  
  
"Heard she was in a sorority?"  
  
"Nah," he says. "Just looks the type."  
  
"How's her boyfriend fit into all that?"  
  
"No boyfriend. Goes home like a good little girl every weekend. Hey, why are you asking?" He smirks at his pal. "You a cop?"  
  
Brendan cracks a smile. "Not hardly."  
  
*  
  
They hit a few bookstores looking for Wilkie Collins enthusiasts, or even first edition collectors, and come up dry.  
  
Brain's got a final at 4 p.m., so Brendan drops him off and takes the next two alone.  
  
Same routine. Holds up the book. "First edition. Any interest?"  
  
The second guy doesn't even look at the cover.  
  
"Not my deal, but there's a guy who'd go _nuts_ for that, has a rare bookstore about 20 miles from here." He rifles around behind the counter for a minute. "I think I've got his card in the back. One second."  
  
Brendan looks around. No customers. You'd think a place like this would do a decent business near a college.  
  
"Here you go," the guy says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Max Montoya, he's your guy."  
  
"Montoya?" he repeats.  
  
"He didn't stutter," comes a distinctly female voice behind him.  
  
He's aware of the audible crack of a blunt instrument connecting squarely with the base of his skull in the split second before everything goes black.  
  
*  
  
When he comes to, his head is pounding, sure, but his hands are free and the car's stopped.  
  
Benefit of being kidnapped by amateurs, he supposes.  
  
He feels around in the dark for a latch to push the backseat down. Then there's some scraping outside the trunk and adrenaline surges through his veins, drowning out the throbbing in his head, as he realizes that he is thoroughly unarmed.  
  
The trunk opens. He goes on the offensive, flailing his arms around and yelling.  
  
“Jesus, Brendan,” Brain says mildly, but he's smiling.  
  
“Am I hallucinating?”  
  
“I'm flattered, but no. We should get out of here. I'll explain later.” He helps Brendan to his feet. “Can you hotwire a car? I just assumed you could.”  
  
Brendan takes in his surroundings. They're standing outside a cabin. Inside, he can hear four voices screaming. “Family reunion, I take it?”  
  
“Serendipity. The Montoyas intercepted me before I made it to class. Made it to the bookstore just as Jilly and her friend were loading you up.”  
  
“This is the drop?”  
  
“I suspect at least one of these cars isn't going to be missed for now. Can we go?”  
  
“Yeah, I can hotwire a car,” Brendan says.  
  
He's just gotten the engine running when he hears a prolonged scream, followed by a few unmistakable _pops_. There's a story there, sure, but the upside is, he doesn't have to care about this one.  
  
He'll drop the car off outside Max Montoya's store when they get back to town.  
  
Case closed.  
  
*  
  
"Jesus," Brendan drags the vowels out, craning his neck to get a look at the new wound in the mirror behind the bar. Jilly and her pal had apparently kicked him in the face a time or two for good measure.  
  
“Pretty bad,” Brain agrees. Mr. Montoya had rewarded him for finding the real kidnappers, so to speak, with a small wad of cash, before heading into the cabin to finish things off. He, in turn, decided to reward Brendan with a few rounds at a local dive. Brendan didn't protest.  
  
“How was the book?” Jilly left _The Woman in White_ on the dashboard in her haste to find the money her father had fronted for her own ransom. Brain had finished it on the long drive back to town.  
  
“Good,” Brain says, downing his third scotch and soda. “Think you'd like it. A detective story.”  
  
Brendan groans. “Had enough of those for a while, I think.”  
  
Brain orders another round. “Ever thought about doing it professionally?”  
  
"Nah. Never seems to end up too well for me.” He gestures at his busted lip. “Case in point.”  
  
“Practice makes perfect,” Brain says.  
  
“Well,” he says. “Who knows what the future holds?”  
  
*  
  
Driving home is out of the question and he doesn't relish the idea of sleeping on the floor in Brain's dorm room. They stumble down the street to the nearest motor lodge and Brendan books a double for the night.  
  
“Get some sleep,” he mutters as he makes his way out of the bathroom. He might have had one or two too many. Who cares?  
  
Brain lurches toward him. For a second, Brendan thinks, wildly, that Brain is going to shove him or punch him, for no goddamn reason at all. Since it's Brain, he's not worried about it, so he's frozen in place, not quite flinching, when Brain kisses him instead. From the look in his eye, it might have been a last-minute decision.  
  
He just stands there, a little relieved, and lets it happen. He's used to lipstick and softness or sweetness, deceptive or otherwise. Brain tastes like salt and the blood from his own swollen lip.  
  
It's not unpleasant.  
  
He seems to be motivated by a grim determination rather than any sort of passion. The second Brendan starts to respond, because what the hell, he jerks away.  
  
Brain shrugs. "Sorry. Thought I might as well. Since you're leaving, and we won't remember. Don't make a big deal of it."  
  
“Who says I'm leaving?”  
  
He's amused by the panic that passes across Brain's face, so he decides to draw it out.  
  
“Thought I might stick around. Almost summer, after all, and I don't have anything better to do.”  
  
“Shit, man,” Brain says. “I'm sorry. This is why I don't drink.”  
  
“Seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it back there.”  
  
“Don't worry,” he says. “Won't happen again. One-time thing.”  
  
“It didn't exactly come as a surprise,” he says.  
  
Brain doesn't respond.  
  
“And it wasn't terrible,” he says. “I mean, not right now, because I'm kind of nauseous and my head hurts like a mother, but maybe later.”  
  
“Later,” Brain echoes.  
  
“After finals.” Brendan stumbles toward his bed and falls forward.  
  
“Shit,” Brain says. “College.”  
  
*  
  
As it turns out, Brain is right as usual.  
  
Practice makes perfect.  


**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from a completely unrelated episode of the old-time radio series "Suspense."


End file.
